Ill Fated
by Elendraug
Summary: Merry loves you. This is the only thing you know for certain. Slash. Merry Pippin.


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Ill-fated 

By StarWolf 

11/22/2003 at 10:41 P.M. 

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Title: Ill-fated   
**Author:** StarWolf (elendraug@yahoo.com)   
**Pairing:** Merry/Pippin   
**Fandom:** Lord of the Rings   
**Genre:** Angst   
**Warnings:** Slash, unpleasantness   
**Distribution:** Please don't. I like being in control of where my work goes.   
**Disclaimer:** I don't own The Lord of the Rings -- Tolkien does. He also owns my soul.   
**Summary:** Merry loves you. This is the only thing you know for certain.   
**Authoress' Notes:** Inspired by insomnia. What if the Uruk-hai had searched Merry and Pippin for the Ring? 

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Merry loves you. This is the only thing you know for certain. The fact that he loves you with all his heart, mind, and soul is obvious, for he has told you. He's told you when he holds you close to his chest, runs his fingers through your light brown hair, and whispers gentle reassurances in your softly pointed ear. He's told you when you were shivering in the snow on a cruel mountain, when you were afraid of the inescapable darkness of the mines, and when you were homesick and upset and trying to sleep underneath the nostalgic trees of a golden forest. And he told you when you saw him for the last time. Desperately clutching you to himself, he struggled to keep himself from crying, and told you that it would all be okay. You, however, couldn't stop yourself from shedding tears, because part of you knew that it wouldn't end well at all. This was the first time his words had ever failed to console you, and both of you were at a loss.

He said he'd had no choice, that if you were to survive, he would not. That the Uruk-hai would surely kill both of you when they found that the two of you weren't carrying the Ring. Somehow keeping himself from having an emotional breakdown, he explained how he would stay, and you could escape for a chance at freedom. Safety. Love.

But I love you, Merry, you'd said, and he nodded and hugged you again. I know, he'd said, and I love you too. And you cried, and he comforted you, but not fully. You knew that though you might have a shot at living longer, Merry did not. He would die, and in a horrid, painful way. And there was nothing you could do about it. Though you begged and pleaded to stay with him, to be with him, to die with him, Merry wanted the best for you. And if that meant that his death was inevitable, so be it. 

You protested this, of course, until it was too late for further argument. The Uruks had decided to search both of you this morning. Merry pulled you into his arms and kissed you so hard that you were torn between swooning from the kiss and fainting from pure grief. You cried, and he pressed his forehead to yours, locked his grey eyes with your green ones, and told you that you had to go. That he wanted you to live, needed you to keep going, because he loved you. And you finally -- reluctantly -- agreed, if only to end the debate.

He persuaded the Uruks to search him first; this gave you time to sneak away and run for -- literally -- your life. While they harshly wrested the downy, grey Lórien cloak from his weary shoulders, you, silent as only a Hobbit can be, crept backwards and away from the group. As they were rending his bright, Shire-spun clothing from his tired body, you were crawling through the dry grass, wetting it with your freely falling tears. When they beat him to the ground, you were running through the endless fields, and you longed to go back. You wanted to hold him until the Uruks slaughtered you both, so at least you would die together. But now that possibility is lost, and you are tripping on rocks and tangled weeds. Stumbling and collapsing to the dusty earth, you don't care if you're far enough from the evil creatures or not. You want Merry, and you now know that you can't have him anymore. 

This realization burns its way into your mind, and you shake with complete despair. Even if you were to rush to try to save him, you would be killed in an instant. The short Elven blade you still carry would do little or no damage to even one Uruk, nevermind being able to defeat the entire company. So instead of valiantly dying in a futile battle to save your best friend, your lover, your Merry, you lie on the ground and shed tears of misery.

Night falls, and so do any stubborn hopes you were clinging onto. As you raise your head, the overpowering need to know what happened ensnares you, and you trudge back to the site you'd so hurriedly left. You search for a trace of him, anything to give you some shred of solace. You claw through the grass, the dim moonlight your only aid. 

All you find are bits of yellow cloth. Agony renewed, you hold them tightly in your clenched fists, and again you throw yourself down. Eventually you will starve, and likely some stray animal will devour your remains. You will never know what happened to Merry, poor Merry, but it doesn't matter. He loved you, and you loved him -- this you know. It was the only important thing in your life. 

Your life is gone, but your love lives on. 


End file.
